


and i’m still waking every morning but it’s not with you

by RainyForecast



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Relationship, Enjolras as a singer, Ficlet, M/M, Oh Combeferre darling, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:37:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/RainyForecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thank you, you’re a beautiful crowd. I’m going to close with a cover of a song by a dear friend of mine."<br/>Combeferre knows where this is going.<br/>“This is Colors, by Halsey.”<br/>Oh, thinks Combeferre. Oh, Enjolras.</p><p>Inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TNt28Tx-cw0</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i’m still waking every morning but it’s not with you

Enjolras’ hair is so pale the stages lights have their way with it completely, painting it in ecstatic washes of blue, red, purple. Combeferre is standing up against the wall, letting its solidity at his back tamp down the usual panic at the presence of so many other bodies. It’s a good crowd-enthusiastic and ready to find abandon in anything. And Enjolras has never been this good before. He’s electric. He’s completely lost in performing. Combeferre feels unsettled somehow though, like there’s something dark and wrong gnawing at the edges of the evening. He has no idea why. Maybe it’s the raw edge to some of Enjolras’ lyrics that was missing before. The way the music is tearing from him like it hurts. He looks like a martyr in a painting up there, tortured,  impossibly beautiful, Saint Sebastian in eyeliner. His sweat is streaming down his bare torso under the open shirt he’s wearing, and his soaked hair clings to his temples.

_Enjolras_. Combeferre thinks. _What’s happened?_ He knows his friend, and he knows this is wrong. Enjolras’s demeanor has always given the impression of a volcano being held back by sheer force of will. This complete release has something of despair in it..

He gets his answer at the end of the set. Enjolras quiets the hysterical screams of the crowd with upraised hands.

“Thank you, you’re a beautiful crowd. I’m going to close with a cover of a song by a dear friend of mine."

Combeferre knows where this is going.

“This is _Colors_ , by Halsey.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Combeferre. _Oh, Enjolras_.

“I want to dedicate this song to someone-someone really important to me. Someone I-- someone I love.”

Combeferre remembers suddenly--this afternoon, he’d heard raised voices in the hotel hallway. Grantaire hadn’t shown up to soundcheck. Sleeping something off, again, although as usual no one wanted to say anything about it.

“If someone out there’s figured out what to do when someone you love is determined to fuck themselves completely over, again, and _again_ , and _again_ , let me know.”

_Oh Enjolras._

Enjolras’ voice is heartbreak made into sound. He’s clutching the mikestand as though it’s the only thing holding him up. The lyrics break over Combeferre like a wave.

_You're only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope_

_I hope you make it to the day you're 28 years old_

His voice tells it all, frustration, exhaustion.

_You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece_

_And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink_

Love.

Combeferre feels tears well up in his eyes. At this particular moment, he’d have no compunction about slamming Grantaire up against a wall to knock some sense into him. Punch him bloody.  Lock him in a room to thrash and scream through his withdrawals alone. But he won’t. That’s not how these things work, and even if they did, Combeferre never hurt Graintaire. Not when Enjolras loves him like this.

_Everything was blue_

_His pills, his hands, his jeans_

If he thought Enjolras was giving tonight his all before, Combeferre had been wrong. Combeferre clenches his fists. _Look what you’ve done, Grantaire, damn you. Look what you’re just fucking throwing away._

__

_Everything was grey_

_His hair, his smoke, his dreams_

When the song ends, the crowd’s response is frenzied and hysterical. But all Combeferre can see is the way the life seems to leave Enjolras’ body. He smiles a completely fabricated smile at the crowd, and he walks off the stage. Combeferre leaves his spot by the wall and throws himself into the throng, headed for the exit. He finds Enjolras in the hallway by the greenroom, elbows on his knees, hunched over.

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras looks up, and he’s crying, tracks of dirty black makeup marring his cheeks. Combeferre wraps his arms around him, and lets him shake apart.

“‘’Ferre. I can’t do this.”

“Grantaire?”

“How did you-”

“I’m not exactly blind.”

“He just _won’t-_ ”

“E, whatever’s between you two, you owe it to yourself to get out if it does this to you.”

“He loves me. And I couldn’t help but love him too. But he won’t stop. And I can’t keep on like this.”

Combeferre ignores the feeling of his own heart fracturing. It’s not like _he_ can be angry at anyone for loving Enjolras. But oh, to do so and still to hurt Enjolras like this. He could kill Grantaire.

But he won’t.

 

Grantaire’s doing a fine job of that on his own.

**Author's Note:**

> You're lovely, and I'm creaturesofnarrative on tumblr.


End file.
